Fingertips
by amber von tussle
Summary: It's like dominoes. One event triggers several others. [ADHD!Rita. Hints of Freechamp.]


"I need you in my office at quarter-past twelve."

Connie. She goes. Lofty trips over nothing. Rita wonders where she's put her mobile. Hands reach into her pocket and blind panic seizes her before she realises, with a sigh of relief, she's left it in the locker. Locker key?

Pocket. Right. She hasn't lost anything.

When was it again? One? Quarter-to one? Fuck. Fuck, she forgot.

Twelve? Was it twelve? She'd go with twelve-ish. She'd go then. Maybe she'd be early.

Dylan brushes past her with papers. She chews the skin around her nails. She's trying to grow them, but it's difficult. She never _means_ to bite them. She just gets bored or restless or she doesn't know what to do with her hands.

Ow. That hurt. Maybe she should stop before she makes herself bleed. She had a Rubik's Cube somewhere. She left it at home. Or maybe it's in her locker.

Phone. Shoes. Soft blanket. House keys. Purse. Bus ticket. No Rubik's Cube.

Fuck.

She forgot her watch. What time is it? Time goes by so fast. She got Lost again. Shoes.

Heels. Connie.

"I told you to meet me in my office!"

Connie's wearing a skirt today. She looks pretty. Rita wishes she'd remembered her Rubik's Cube. She needs a Remembrall like Neville in Harry Potter. He forgot his robe. It'd taken her ages to work that out. "Rita!"

"Huh?"

"Look at your fingers; they're bleeding."

Oh. She's been chewing them again. She feels a wave of shame course through her. She wasn't supposed to do that. But what else could she do? Dylan got annoyed if she started tapping or fidgeting or _anything_. She didn't mean to be annoying. She couldn't help it.

"—go."

"What?" she asks bluntly.

"We're going to my office, and I'm going to look at your fingers," repeats Connie. There is an edge of annoyance in her tone.

Rita sighs. She doesn't mean to irritate people. It just seems to _happen_. She wiggles her toes inside her shoes. One two three four five steps. She likes Connie's skirt. Connie has a daughter, doesn't she? How old's she now? Fuck, she forgot her name as well. _What's your daughter called_ , she nearly asks, but maybe she doesn't have a daughter.

"Sit."

Oh. She got Lost again again. They're at Connie's office.

Rita sits. Connie sits opposite.

"Give me your hands."

Rita obeys. Connie pulls out a little first aid kit. There's a set of different plasters and some bandages and some antiseptic wipes and a pack of paracetamol and a little zip-up transparent purse with tampons in there and Connie takes an antiseptic wipe.

Rita flinches. "No."

Connie raises an eyebrow. "No?"

"That's gonna hurt."

It's like at school where they put antiseptic on your grazes and it _fucking hurts_ like hell and one time she kicked one of the dinner ladies for doing that and she got sent home.

Don't kick or bite or hurt Connie. She's your boss.

Connie's voice softens. "Do you want it to get infected?"

Rita doesn't reply. Instead she wonders where she left her Rubik's Cube. Maybe she put it under her bed. It could've fallen out of her hands when she fell asleep last night. Her room's a mess. She should clean—

"Ow!"

"Sorry. It'll be over in a minute."

She counts backwards from sixty fifty-nine fifty-eight fifty-seven fifty-six fifty-four fifty-three fifty-two fifty-one fifty but stumbles at forty-nine and gives up.

"Is it done yet?"

"No."

"How long's it going to take?"

"How _old_ are you, Sister Freeman?"

"Well it fucking hurts!"

Connie takes a sharp breath. Irritation. Rita turns her gaze to the floor. She's annoyed someone. Again.

It feels like she can't ever do anything right, no matter how hard she tries.

She opens her mouth to apologise, but nothing comes out except a quiet sob.

She's the most useless person she's ever met. How does she even have this job? She barely got the fucking grades for it. She didn't remember the fucking meeting or her fucking Rubik's Cube and she fucking gnawed her fingers to fucking shreds and now her boss is tending to them and she's fucking pissed at her because—

"Rita. Rita, breathe for me. In and out, okay?"

In.

Out.

She puts two fingers to her cheek. It's wet. Tears. She's crying. In front of her boss.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. No. Not now. Not today. She's not fucking doing this.

She can't be doing this. She's having a fucking breakdown in front of her fucking boss.

"Rita, it's okay. You know where you are?"

Rita nods.

"Good. I'm going to finish patching you up, okay?"

Calm. One thing at a time. Okay. She can do this.

Stings. Ow ow ow. Stops.

"I'm done." Connie puts the first aid kit away. "I want you to go home, Rita."

The blood drains from her face. "What— why?"

"You need to calm down. You're not fit to work like this. How are you getting home?"

What. What.

"Bus?" It comes out more as a question.

Connie sighs. "I'll drive you."

Locker keys. Turn left. Phone. Purse. Shoes. House keys.

"What's that?"

Soft blanket.

"Um..."

Connie shakes her head. "Never mind."

Rita curls it up into a ball into her left fist. Soft. It's small but comforting.

Phone in pocket. Purse in right hand. House keys in pocket. Shoes. Shoes?

Shoes in Connie's hand.

Car. Front seat. Seatbelt on. Car starting.

She squeezes the blanket. Smells like home.

Lost. She must be. They're at her house now. Good.

Connie is following her up the path. "No." The house is messy. Connie will be angry. Everyone's always angry.

House keys. Turn right. Open.

Connie's followed her inside. Fuck. Phone beeps. She chucks it on the sofa. "Stop." She'll check it later, she promises.

"When did you last clean?"

Rita shrugs. "Dunno. Was gonna on Sunday, but I forgot."

"You _forgot_?" she asks incredulously.

"I'm not lying." She forgets everything. One time she forgot her locker key and had to come back for it and once she forgot to get up for work and was late.

"I never said that."

Kitchen. "Got any food?"

Rita shrugs. "Pizza. I think. I forgot to go shopping on Friday."

Connie frowns. She is unimpressed. Disappointed. Disgusted?

Rita shrinks away from her eyes. Does she know? She's a doctor for fuck's sake. She can probably just fucking guess.

"Take a shower. I'll do some cleaning for you." The words are easy to comprehend. Everything is nice. Shower.

Warm water or cold water? Hot cold cold hot?

Cold. She fucked up today. She deserves cold.

She must be Lost again because Connie is shouting her. Fuck.

Towel. Water drips on the floor. Should she wear pyjamas or loungewear or normal clothes?

Breathe. Not a big decision.

Guess loungewear. You can always go and change. No big deal.

Downstairs. Pizza is on the table. Pepperoni.

Three slices. She isn't particularly hungry but she likes pepperoni and she's worn out.

She forgets Connie's here until she comes to eat. The leftover pizza goes in the oven to reheat in case they're hungry later on.

She never realised she could do that. Sofa. Film?

Disney film? Okay.

Brother Bear. Good choice.

Connie takes off her shoes. "Your hair is wet," she says. It smells like coconut.

Connie is comfort. She is organisation. She is constant. She is good.

Voices fade to soft murmurs. Things get darker. A yawn escapes Rita's mouth. Comfy.

"Tired?" Connie lets the question filter through her brain. "It's okay, sleep if you need to."

And she needs to. Black. She can still hear the murmurings on TV. But Connie is whispering. Whispering.

"Sleep well."


End file.
